IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS RETURN.
Mr. Jack Hamlin was in very bad case. When Dr. Duchesne, who had been
summoned from Sacramento, arrived, that eminent surgeon had instantly
assumed such light-heartedness and levity toward his patient, such
captiousness toward Pete, with an occasional seriousness of demeanour
when he was alone, that, to those who knew him, it was equal to an
unfavourable prognosis. Indeed, he evaded the direct questioning of
Olly, who had lately constituted herself a wondrously light-footed,
soft-handed assistant of Pete, until one day, when they were alone, he
asked more seriously than was his wont if Mr. Hamlin had ever spoken of
his relations, or if she knew of any of his friends who were accessible.
Olly had already turned this subject over in her womanly mind, and had
thought once or twice of writing to the Blue Moselle, but on the direct
questioning of the doctor, and its peculiar significance, she recalled
Jack's confidences on their midnight ride, and the Spanish beauty he had
outlined; and so one evening, when she was alone with her patient, and
the fever was low, and Jack lay ominously patient and submissive, she
began--what the doctor had only lately abandoned--probing a half-healed
wound.
"I reckon you'd hev been a heap more comfortable ef this thing hed
happened to ye down thar in San Antonio," said Olly.
Jack rolled his dark eyes wonderingly upon his fair persecutor.
"You know you'd hev had thet thar sweetheart o' yours--thet Mexican
woman--sittin' by ye, instead o' me--and Pete," suggested the artful
Olympia.
Jack nearly leaped from the bed.
"Do you reckon I'd hev rung myself in as a wandering cripple--a tramp
thet hed got peppered--on a lady like _her_? Look yer, Olly," continued
Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on his elbow, "if you've got the idea thet
thet woman is one of them hospital sharps--one of them angels who waltz
round a sick man with a bottle of camphor in one hand and a tract in the
other--you had better disabuse your mind of it at once, Miss Conroy;
take a back seat and wait for a new deal. And don't you go to talkin' of
thet lady as my sweetheart--it's--it's--sacrilegious--and the meanest
kind of a bluff."
As the day of the trial drew near, Mr. Hamlin had expressed but little
interest in it, and had evidently only withheld his general disgust of
Gabriel's weakness from consideration of his sister. Once Mr. Hamlin
condescended to explain his apparent coldness.
"There's a witness coming, Olly, that'll clear your brother--more shame
for him--the man ez _did_ kill Ramirez. I'm keeping my sympathies for
that chap. Don't you be alarmed. If that man don't come up to the
scratch I will. So--don't you go whining round. And ef you'll take my
advice, you'll keep clear o' that Court, and let them lawyers fight it
out. It will be time enough for you to go when they send for _me_."
"But you can't move--you ain't strong enough," said Olly.
"I reckon Pete will get me there some way, if he has to pack me on his
back. I ain't a heavy weight now," said Jack, looking sadly at his thin
white hands; "I've reckoned on that, and even if I should pass in my
checks, there's an affidavit already sworn to in Maxwell's hands."
Nevertheless, on the day of the trial, Olly, still doubtful of Gabriel,
and still mindful of his capacity to develop "God-forsaken mulishness,"
was nervous and uneasy, until a messenger arrived from Maxwell with a
note to Hamlin, carrying the tidings of the appearance of Perkins in
Court, and closing with a request for Olly's presence.
"Who's Perkins?" asked Olly, as she reached for her hat in nervous
excitement.
"He's no slouch," said Jack, sententiously. "Don't ask questions. It's
all right with Gabriel now," he added, assuringly. "He's as good as
clear. Run away, Miss Conroy. Hold up a minit! There, kiss me! Look
here, Olly, say!--do you take any stock in that lost sister of yours
that your fool of a brother is always gabbing about? You do? Well, you
are as big a fool as he. There! There!--never mind now--she's turned up
at last! Much good may it do you. One! two!--go!" and as Olly's pink
ribbons flashed through the doorway, Mr. Hamlin lay down again with a
twinkle in his eye.
He was alone. The house was very quiet and still; most of the guests,
and the hostess and her assistant, were at the all-absorbing trial; even
the faithful Pete, unconscious of any possible defection of his
assistant, Olly, had taken the opportunity to steal away to hear the
arguments of counsel. As the retreating footsteps of Olly echoed along
the vacant corridor, he felt that he possessed the house completely.
This consciousness to a naturally active man, bored by illness and the
continuous presence of attendants, however kind and devoted, was at
first a relief. Mr. Hamlin experienced an instant desire to get up and
dress himself, to do various things which were forbidden--but which now
an overruling Providence had apparently placed within his reach. He rose
with great difficulty, and a physical weakness that seemed altogether
inconsistent with the excitement he was then feeling, and partially
dressed himself. Then he was suddenly overtaken with great faintness
and vertigo, and struggling to the open window, fell in a chair beside
it. The cool breeze revived him for a moment, and he tried to rise, but
found it impossible. Then the faintness and vertigo returned, and he
seemed to be slipping away somewhere--not altogether unpleasantly, nor
against his volition--somewhere where there was darkness and stillness
and rest. And then he slipped back, almost instantly as it seemed to
him, to a room full of excited and anxious people, all extravagantly,
and as he thought, ridiculously concerned about himself. He tried to
assure them that he was all right, and not feeling any worse for his
exertion, but was unable to make them understand him. Then followed
Night, replete with pain, and filled with familiar voices that spoke
unintelligibly, and then Day, devoted to the monotonous repetition of
the last word or phrase that the doctor, or Pete, or Olly had used, or
the endless procession of Olly's pink ribbons, and the tremulousness of
a window curtain, or the black, sphinx-like riddle of a pattern on the
bed-quilt or the wall-paper. Then there was sleep that was turbulent and
conscious, and wakefulness that was lethargic and dim, and then infinite
weariness, and then lapses of utter vacuity--the occasional ominous
impinging of the shadow of death.
But through this chaos there was always a dominant central figure--a
figure partly a memory, and, as such, surrounded by consistent
associations; partly a reality and incongruous with its
surroundings--the figure of Donna Dolores! But whether this figure came
back to Mr. Hamlin out of the dusky arches of the Mission Church in a
cloud of incense, besprinkling him with holy water, or whether it bent
over him, touching his feverish lips with cool drinks, or smoothing his
pillow, a fact utterly unreal and preposterous seen against the pattern
of the wall-paper, or sitting on the familiar chair by his bedside--it
was always there. And when, one day, the figure stayed longer, and the
interval of complete consciousness seemed more protracted, Mr. Hamlin,
with one mighty effort, moved his lips, and said feebly--
"Donna Dolores!"
The figure started, leaned its beautiful face, blushing a celestial rosy
red, above his own, put its finger to its perfect lips, and said in
plain English--
"Hush! I am Gabriel Conroy's sister."